Betrayal, p.1
Betrayal, page 1
About the Author
International bestselling author Lesley Pearse has lived a life as rich with incidents, setbacks, and joys, as any found in her novels.
Resourceful, determined, and willing to have a go at almost anything, Lesley left home at sixteen. By the mid-sixties she was living in London, sharing flats, partying hard and married to a trumpet player in a jazz-rock band. She has also worked as a nanny, and a Playboy bunny, and designed and made clothes to sell to boutiques.
It was only after having three daughters that Lesley began to write. The hardships, traumas, close friends, and lovers, from those early years were inspiration for her beloved novels. She published her first book at forty-nine and has not looked back since.
Lesley is still a party girl.
By the same author
Georgia
Tara
Charity
Ellie
Camellia
Rosie
Charlie
Never Look Back
Trust Me
Father Unknown
Till We Meet Again
Remember Me
Secrets
A Lesser Evil
Hope
Faith
Gypsy
Stolen
Belle
The Promise
Forgive Me
Survivor
Without a Trace
Dead to Me
The Woman in the Wood
The House Across the Street
You’ll Never See Me Again
Liar
Suspects
Deception
Lesley Pearse
* * *
BETRAYAL
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Epilogue
To my son Martin Hartland.
Words cannot fully express how wonderful it was that you found me in 2022. I thought you were lost forever.
I feel such joy now and the sadness of the past has vanished. You are a son to be proud of, a great husband to Svetlana and father to your three lovely daughters.
I never anticipated that my family would suddenly double in size.
I hope so much that I have many more years to catch up on all our missing years.
I love you.
1
London, 1998
Don shoved the back door open, banging it hard into the wall. Eve knew by the ferocity of his entrance he was certain to pick a fight with her tonight.
She knew there was no chance of appeasing him. She’d tried every which way in the past and it always ended the same. He would hit her. Often till she was unconscious.
It was just after eleven. That meant he hadn’t found a willing candidate for more drinks after the pub and a kebab. That usually mellowed his mood.
Eve braced herself for the inevitable as he stomped into the kitchen, looking at her balefully. ‘Can I make you a bacon sandwich?’ she asked hopefully.
‘Fuck off, you silly cow,’ he snarled. ‘Do I look like I want a bacon sandwich?’
You look like a pig, she thought but didn’t dare say. ‘Is there something else you’d like to eat?’
She didn’t see the punch coming. For a big man Don could pounce as swiftly as a cat. As his fist connected with her cheek her head rattled with an explosion of pain.
‘Is food the only thing you can offer?’ he shouted at her, and the stink of his beer and cigarette breath made her stomach heave too.
He caught hold of her shoulders, head-butted her, punched her in the stomach so she fell to the floor and then kicked her again and again. She heard a faint crack and knew that, once again, her ribs had broken, but even as she wanted to scream out in agony, she felt the heaven-sent wooziness of unconsciousness.
She came to later to find herself lying in blood; she wasn’t sure which part of her was cut, as everything hurt. An attempt at getting up proved hopeless – her ribs and head hurt too much. Don had left the kitchen light on, and she wished she could manoeuvre herself to reach the cardigan she’d left on the kitchen chair because the heating had turned off and she was very cold.
There was nothing for it but to lie in agony waiting for it to abate enough to try to get up. She would blank out the thought of all the other times she’d lain for hours in this very spot.
‘You should never have married him,’ she muttered as she lifted one hand to examine her face. Her left eye had already swollen so badly she couldn’t see out of it, and one of her teeth was bleeding but it didn’t feel as if it would fall out. The rest of the blood appeared to be from her shin, where Don had kicked it.
So many people had advised her against marrying Don, including her father. They had all witnessed various bouts of bad temper, but back then Eve always found a good reason for them. Besides, back in 1986 when they’d married, his anger had never been directed towards her.
Eve’s mother Sandra had died from breast cancer when Eve was ten, and her father Jack had become a dour, difficult man, so getting married and gaining a home of her own seemed a happy solution. Don was ten years older than Eve, a big dark-haired handsome man. He was a plumber and made a very good living. He even owned a house of his own. Granted it was only a two-up two-down in a scruffy road in Lewisham, and in bad repair, but Eve felt she could make it lovely.
They had only been back from their honeymoon in Spain for a week when he hit her for the first time.
‘I didn’t mean to hurt you,’ he said almost as soon as he’d attacked her, and he got a bag of ice to put on her already swelling eye. ‘I had a terrible day at work and when you began nagging me about decorating the lounge, I just saw red.’
She found herself apologizing for merely offering to paint and wallpaper it herself, something she was good at. She hadn’t considered that was nagging. But as he kissed her bruised face and told her he loved her, she forgave him.
With hindsight she should’ve walked out of the door right then.
Don was delighted when she told him she was pregnant. When the scan showed it was a girl, he was even more thrilled; he said he’d always wanted a daughter. He didn’t hit her again for quite some time, and she believed that he never would again. But when she was eight months pregnant and she said she was too tired to go to the pub with him one Friday night, he hit her again and when she tried to run away from him, he’d grabbed her, swung her round and broke her wrist.
‘Don’t you ever try to run away from me,’ he snarled at her. ‘You are my wife, and you must obey me. So if I say we are going to the pub, you go with a smile on your face.’
Her broken wrist was still in plaster when she went into labour. Her midwife pointed out she’d find a few problems with bathing and dressing a new baby. Eve remembered thinking that perhaps that would be a wake-up call for Don, seeing her struggling at such an important time. But he didn’t appear to even notice.
Fear made her obedient. Not just fear of Don, but fear of what her father would do if she ran to him for help. He was not in the best of health and if he tried to stand up to Don, he might have a stroke or a heart attack. Then there was the fear of what the neighbours would say. They liked Don as he’d done plumbing work for most of them. They would believe any story he chose to tell them. Then there was the fear of having to bring her baby up alone.
A year later Oliver was born, and she told herself she had to make the best of it, as where could she go with two small children? He had always made a fuss over Tabitha, but he seemed totally disinterested in Oliver. Maybe she should have sensed what was to come instead of fooling herself into thinking one day it would all come right.
Now, as she lay on the floor, cold and in terrible pain, she glanced at a framed wedding photograph on the wall. She had looked so pretty that day, her blonde hair curling around her face, blue eyes alight with happiness at becoming Mrs Donald Hathaway at last. Eighteen, with a slim hourglass figure and an alabaster complexion. Back then Don said she was like a beauty queen, and to her he’d been a tall, dark and handsome prince.
But it had all gone sour and she knew she must finally make a plan to escape him. Her father had died five years ago; perhaps his heart attack was due to a broken heart because despite all the efforts she’d made to hide what Don was doing to her, he’d found out. He had urged her to bring the children and come and live with him. He’d planned to see a solicitor so if he should die, the proceeds of the sale of his house would go directly to Eve, not to her and Don. Tragically he had died before he could organize it. Eve couldn’t help but wonder if Don had brought on his heart attack by threatening him.
So it was that Eve’s old family home, a semi-detached house on one of the best roads in Eltham, passed to both Don and Eve. Don in his usual imperious way saw the money from the sale as his and made an offer on a brand-new Georgian-style detached house in Grove Park. He didn’t even take her to see
She had to admit it was a lovely house, with a good school nearby, a big park and direct train access to central London. But back in Lewisham she had people she knew close by, friends she’d made taking the children to playgroups and latterly at infant school. While she had never divulged to anyone what Don did to her, she was fairly certain most had guessed and sympathized. Julia, one of the mothers whose son was in the same class as Oliver back then, was a nurse and had seen Eve come into casualty one morning looking as if she’d been in a car crash.
Yet when Don had taken her to see the newly built house in Briar Road, he’d said it was to be a new beginning for them.
‘I’ve never liked being so close to other people as we are in Lewisham,’ he said. ‘It makes me nervy, like we’re being spied on. It’s too cramped and old-fashioned. I hate it.’
He took her face in his two hands then and kissed her tenderly. ‘I know I haven’t always been kind to you, Eve,’ he admitted. ‘But I do love you and I’m going to turn over a new leaf and spend more time with you and the kids.’
He raved about the big garden and how he’d build a shed for himself and put up a swing and climbing frame for the kids. ‘We’ve never had enough space, but here we’ll have plenty,’ he said, beaming with happiness at what the new house would bring them all. ‘The kids can ride their bikes on the street; it’s safe and quiet here. We are going to be so happy.’
She believed him too and for almost a year after they’d moved in they were happy. They had passionate lovemaking like they’d had on their honeymoon, and Eve forgot to be cautious in what she said to Don. Oliver and Tabitha loved having a bedroom each and liked their new schools. It all looked so rosy, and for the first time in their marriage she was able to take control over the decor, something she had a flair for. Don even praised her for the chic and tasteful result. Eve particularly loved the spacious modern kitchen, with French windows that opened out on to the garden, and Don built his shed halfway down it, laughingly saying he might live in it.
But just as Eve thought the bad old days had gone forever, Don came in one evening from work and gave her such a terrible beating that she was in bed for days. He started to pick on Oliver around the same time; ridiculing him for not liking football, for spending too much time reading and called him a ‘milksop’. Soon his spite turned to slaps and punches, and on one occasion he beat Oliver with a piece of lead piping because he claimed his son had scratched his car getting his bike out of the garage. One night when Don was attacking her, Oliver came out of his room to try to defend her, but that ended very badly when he punched the boy so hard he broke two of his ribs.
Eve could see that both Oliver and Tabitha were becoming withdrawn and fearful in their father’s presence. She made them promise that if they heard any rows they would stay in their rooms. But she knew lying in bed listening to their mum being hurt must be terrible for them. She had to take them and flee to safety, somewhere he’d never find them.
The trouble was she had no money of her own. She hadn’t worked since Oliver had been on the way, and although she’d been trained in curtain making at an interior design shop in Blackheath and become so good at it that Jacintha her boss had been upset to lose her, she had no job now. Maybe she could make curtains again, but how could she rent a flat without money for advance rent and a deposit? And how could she get all three of them out of this house without him suspecting anything?
Despite all Don had done to her, she also resented leaving the house when it was her father’s money that had paid for it. The sale of his own little house had been spent by Don on a bigger van for work, a new BMW, his shed, and the rest frittered away at the pub.
As she lay there shivering, she wondered if there was a way she could kill him, as his death would solve everything for her. A pillow over his face while sleeping? A push down the stairs, or could she cut the brakes on his van? Poison? Or just knife him and claim it was self-defence?
2
Don was still asleep when Eve left the house with Olly and Tabby the following morning.
The children had both hugged her when they came down for their breakfast, their anxious expressions showing that although they knew how she’d got her black eye and why she was in obvious pain, they didn’t know what to say about it.
Seeing her children’s concern and fear Eve knew she had to speak out.
‘We will leave today if possible,’ she reassured them as they ate cereal. ‘But I have to work it out when and how, and where we will go to. For now we just act as normal, and I pretend I’m taking you to school. But really, I’m going to try and get some advice.’
‘You should go to the police and get him locked up!’ Olly burst out, and he pointed to her bandaged leg. ‘What did he do to that?’
‘He kicked me. I think it needs a stitch; it won’t stop bleeding,’ Eve said. ‘I’ll catch the bus to Lewisham Hospital before I do anything else.’
‘I wish I had big muscles, then I’d do that to him and see how he likes it,’ Olly said, his big dark eyes so like his father’s, glistening with unshed tears. ‘If ever I get married, I’ll never hurt my wife.’
‘I really hope you won’t,’ Eve said, smoothing back his dark hair. ‘I also hope both of you will think very carefully about committing yourself to anyone until you know them inside out.’
But she knew she wouldn’t have listened even if someone had told her Don was a serial killer. She had loved him on sight and to her he was perfect. She wondered how she could teach Tabby to recognize a potential brute.
They kissed her goodbye at the end of the road and Eve went to the bus stop. She had to make sure everything looked normal back home. Don’s breakfast place was laid at the table; she usually made him tea and toast, plus bacon and egg if he wanted it. She hoped he wouldn’t be suspicious and wonder why she’d taken the children to school. Hopefully he’d remember how hard he’d hit her last night and feel ashamed.
Before she’d left the house, she’d checked her appearance. Both her eyes were black and very puffy, she had a big bruise on her forehead, and her lip was cut and swollen. She thought she looked nearer forty now than her real age of thirty. Setting aside her present injuries, the previous ones had yellowed her skin, her neck looked scraggy, her blue eyes dull, and her blonde hair needed a wash and hung limply to her shoulders. She had only gained a few pounds since her wedding, but she no longer carried herself as well as she did back then; she’d noticed she tended to stoop. She’d put on a mid-calf skirt to cover her leg injuries, but that made her look older too. But then she’d silently reminded herself she wasn’t going for a job interview or a date. Finally she’d taken her sunglasses out of the hall-table drawer and put them on. They weren’t right for grey skies, but they hid her eyes. And she did her best to sound cheerful as she walked up the road with the children.
Waiting for the bus to Catford, she didn’t feel so good. Her broken ribs hurt badly and washing and dressing had been agony. Plus, she was tired from the night on the kitchen floor. She just hoped her leg wouldn’t start bleeding again. Bending to bandage it had been so difficult and she’d nearly passed out with the pain.
‘Time to go,’ she whispered to herself as the bus came. ‘This time you will do the right thing.’
In Catford she went straight to the police station. Fortunately, there was no one else waiting in reception. When she took off her sunglasses as she told the duty officer she wanted to report her husband for beating her, his voice softened, and he said he would put her in an interview room and bring her a cup of tea.
A policewoman with a long nose came in and introduced herself as WPC Sutton. To Eve she looked about thirty.
‘My goodness, you look as if you’ve done a few rounds with Muhammad Ali,’ she said. ‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Hathaway, you must be in great pain.’
‘The ribs and leg hurt more,’ Eve said, liking her a bit more as she sounded genuinely sympathetic. ‘I should have come for help years ago; each beating is worse.’
She was naturally reserved, and she’d been brought up to never tell tales on anyone, but she knew this was crunch time; she really did have to admit how often she was beaten and why.
